


you bring out the worst in me

by angryjane



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, BUT LIGHT, Depressed Simon Snow, Established Relationship, I'm Sorry, Light Angst, M/M, Mentioned Penelope Bunce, Mild Smut, No Spoilers for Book 2: Wayward Son, Non-Graphic Smut, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Pining Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Sad with a Happy Ending, Simon Snow Doesn't Have Wings or a Tail, Songfic, This Is STUPID, Tie Kink, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow in Love, Watford (Simon Snow), barely, bc i forgot about them, but at the same time, but not a lot, except a little bit, i've never written smut before sorry guys, not v spoilery, so let's pretend they're still magicked away, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 13:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21179861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angryjane/pseuds/angryjane
Summary: What happens when they get back to Watford?





	you bring out the worst in me

**Author's Note:**

> heh. so.
> 
> this is inspired by my current fave song: [spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/4YKaHxTYMgaEIsu0ZNvsvz?si=a8f1YCmJSNKyi7GZvfl92w) [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aigZGRtt7Xg)  
it's called "Portrait of a Female" and i know this is mlm but i just,,, this song hits different.
> 
> also?? i've never written smut before i'd love to know what u think,,, and i know it's like not even explicit or good but. i'm working up to it 
> 
> OH and lastly: i just forgot about the wings and tail sorry asndvfjnbxkd; so let's pretend they're still magicked away w penny's badass spell

Everything is exactly as we left it. As if there was nothing to fuck with it with the three of us gone. The Weeping Tower may be weeping a little more, but otherwise it’s all the same. My fingers itch as I glance out at the Wood. 

Simon grabs my hand then, which he hasn’t done in a very long time - save for America. America was like a fluke, a reprieve from real life. Looking down at our hands, grasped gently between us, I say nothing and simply stay as I am.

Penelope looks between us warily. “Just…" She pauses, gathering her thoughts. "Find something to do. I’ll come get you in a few hours. I need to talk to my mum, anyways.”

“But, Penny-”

“No, Simon. I have to talk to her alone. It’s fine, you’ll be with Baz, right?”

I nod. Simon is still holding my hand. 

“Right. Well, off with you, then.” And then she disappears in the direction of the Mage’s old office, and I’m just here in the dusk with a boy I don’t know where I stand with anymore. 

“Baz-” He starts at the same time I turn back towards the Wood. I stop. So does he, blinking rapidly at me like he’s confused - or nervous, maybe.

“Do…” He clears his throat, eyes flicking around my face before darting back down to our hands, like it’s a miracle even to him. “Wanna go to our room?"

I can't help the shiver that passes through me at the mention.  _ Our _ room. 

"Lead the way."

Dr. Bunce hadn't bothered to give anyone the room after the two of us had left. It's too big, too high. Simon's bed sheets are still a rumpled mess at the foot of the bed, mine perfectly folded. There's an open textbook on my desk, and the wardrobe is covered in dust.

Simon crossed the room in two strides, wings filling the open space. Like he doesn't mind me seeing them, like he doesn't mind me seeing  _ him.  _

He opens the window, and I can't help the laugh that bubbles out of me. When he glances back, he's grinning. That full-hearted, childish thing of his, where his teeth stick out a little too far and his eyes scrunch up and his cheeks go red. 

I want to say something clever, but then his eye catches on something behind me, and the grin falls flat off his face. I turn; there's a large scorch mark on the doorframe from fifth year when he went off on our room. I was there-- it was the most glorious thing I'd ever seen. (Now, the most glorious thing I've ever seen is Simon Snow cruising down the highway in jeans and a t-shirt, laughing with the roof down, sun-kissed and sparkling.) 

It's like something snaps out of place behind his eyes. He looks more like a devil than a boy, like this. Angry and huffing, hands fisted, face red. His wings fan out almost angelically behind him, and all that’s left is to add horns, with his tail whipping around like that. 

But then it passes, and his hands unfurl, hanging limp at his sides. He deflates. 

_ When someone shows you who they are, you believe them _ . I'd heard him saying it to the mirror after a rare shower last week, before America. I think of the forest, of Simon pinning me up to the burning treeline, mouth hot on mine, flames dancing around us, and then of him helping me summon a deer afterwards. When he used to do that- that  _ thing _ , pushing me full of magic, of  _ his _ magic, I'd felt like I was on fire. Like I was chained to him.

I think he was trying to break up with me, earlier. But I'm miserable when I'm free. 

I’d heard somewhere that it isn't love if it doesn't hurt, that safety words weren't real life. Simon is standing at the wardrobe now, running his hands down it almost reverently. He pulls on one handle; it's empty save for one leftover tie. Frayed at the ends-- Simon's. One freckled hand comes out to grab it, slipping it through thick fingers. 

Without thinking, my feet drag me forward, stumbling towards him to take the tie from him. He looks up, startled, and I don't look at him as I begin to knot it around his neck. I'm holding my breath. I can hear his heartbeat, steady and quick, and he lets out a shaky noise when my fingers brush his neck. It looks rather absurd, really, against his t-shirt and jeans, but he doesn’t seem to mind. 

We say nothing, and when I'm finished, a perfect knot at the base of that lovely throat, I look down at him. His eyes are wide, lips parted (mouth breather), and then he's kissing me. He's kissing me like he did in the truck, hands coming up to bunch in my jumper. I can feel his nails scrabbling at my chest through the thin fabric, but I don't care because he's  _ touching _ me. Cupping his face with one hand, I drag him in closer, our lips slotting together almost like they're made to. We used to be made to do this.

I'm not sure how long it's been before he pushes me back, mouth still attached to mine, panting against my lips, his tongue against my teeth, careful of the fangs. My knees hit the mattress behind me-- Simon's-- and I fall back into the rumpled sheets, bouncing. 

He falls with me.

And he's laughing, the giggles resonating through his solid chest beneath my fingers, curls bouncing as he pulls his head back to look at me. Everything is shrouded in red, the fading light filtering through his wings-- it feels like we're in our own little world, like this, together. I'm getting high off his burnt popcorn and cinnamon smell.

"You look nice like that,” He tells me, and dips a hand into the collar of my jumper, tugging it aside. His lips find my collarbone, and I yelp-- it’s been so long. I can feel him smiling against my skin, his breath tickling my neck. I don’t know what’s gotten into him-- the room or the plane ride or America or what-- but I can’t say I mind, as he drags his teeth against me again. 

“Snow- Simon-” I pant, raking a hand through his curls, and he laughs once again, but pulls back. I can’t help the low whine that comes out when he does, and his hands find my shoulders, sliding slowly up and down my front. I shiver. 

“This place makes me feel like me again.” He tells me then, sincerely, and the smile on his face changes; this is the gentle Simon who I used to reserve on evenings like this, back in his flat, when we were slow and careful and sleepy. His tail is flicking lazily behind him, smacking steadily against my thigh, and I’m reminded briefly of some other things he used to do with it. 

And then he snaps back, the mischievous grin returning, and his fingers are clawing at the tie around his neck. Part of me wants to complain-- I  _ just _ tied it--but I stay quiet, watching his fingers loosen it and yank it over his head. He goes to drop it over the side of the bed, but I stop him, grabbing at his wrist. He freezes, and for a second I fear maybe he’ll dart back, close himself back up, but I move slowly and tug it from his fingers, and he only watches. 

And then, because I’m stupid or lovestruck or both, I slip it over his forearm, pulling it tight. He blinks at me, still on pause, and I can see myself reflected in his eyes. I look pale and pleading and I hate myself for it. We used to do things sort of like this, not even that long ago. I don’t know if I’m allowed, don’t know if I can. 

But slowly, the smile grows, and he’s giggling again, leaning back down to kiss me. My fingers slip under the hem of his t-shirt, settling on his bare hips and he squirms, biting my lip entirely on accident. I don’t mind. 

Panting, he starts to rock; it takes me by surprise and I let out a little sound I’m not proud of from the back of my throat. He rocks a bit faster, then, and my hands start to tug his shirt off. When he pulls back to take it the rest of the way off, I let out another dreadful sound involuntarily. When we separate, our mouths make an obscene sound in the silence of the tower, echoing back at me on stone walls. The window is still open, letting the draft in, but I don’t feel it,. With him, I feel so warm. 

When he’s got the thing off, he pauses, staring down at me. I watch him, scanning his bare torso. He’s softer than the last time, all rounded edges and curves, but still fit as a fucking suit, and I bring two hands up to slip them around his waist. Simon smiles, and I can feel his laughter against my bicep as I pull my face closer into him, nestling my nose against his skin. 

“Cold,” He tells me, but doesn’t pull away, one hand carding through my hair. I press myself further against him, breathing in his honey skin and moles. There’s a large one beside his belly button and I kiss it. 

“Still on the mole thing?” He says, and I glare at him. The effect must be ruined by the angle, because he only laughs more. With one arm still around his middle, I drag the other hand up his chest, pausing at one pink nipple to flick a finger across it. He makes this little gasping noise and I do it again, grinning at him. The hand still in my hair starts to tug, and I dig my nails into his fleshy lower back softly, eliciting a gasp around my name, “Baz.” Fretfully, his other hand comes down, him leaning over me now, towards the hem of my jumper, dragging it up my back so he can trace warm fingers down my spine.

This close, pressed together in our old room, he smells like vanilla and, faintly, of smoke. All I can think about are all the times he set me aflame, all those years in this tower. Clawing at each other with all we had. Watching him sleep. Listening to his breath in the dead of night, a stomach full of rat blood and my nostrils filled with smoke. I’ve been so deprived of this, of him and his heat. Pitches are fire magicians; it’s only fair. 

I snake my hands across his back, palms flat to the soft flesh there as he tries to rip the shirt right off my back. I’m laughing, and then he is too, hands stilling against my skin. The rumble of his joy resonates through me, from my cheeks and down my spine with a tingle. In the cold, empty room, we pause, breathing against each other and laughing periodically, hands to each other’s backs. His nose is in my neck, breath hot on my collarbone. 

And then I extract my arms from around him, pulling back to drag my jumper up over my head, starting on the buttons of my shirt underneath. It’s crimson, with sweet alyssum and Peruvian lilies dotted across it in black and white. It was my mother’s a long time ago. 

His eyes are on my fingers, following down to the hem, and then his hands dart out, pushing it off my shoulders like he can’t wait any longer. Shaking hands find cold skin and I can hear him sigh, like it’s a relief to an ache I didn’t even know he still had. I’ve always liked the way his skin looked against mine, warm and sunny across pale sand. Or something like that; I’m only prone to wax poetic when Simon is involved. 

The tie is still around his wrist, slipping down to brush against my navel as he slides a hand down towards my belly button. One time, late at night when we were drunk and silly, he put his lips there and blew, making the loudest, most disgusting noise I’d ever heard, and I’d fallen off the bed laughing, his head peeking down at me over the edge of the mattress, “It wasn’t  _ that _ funny, Baz. I used to give raspberries to the younger kids at the orphanage all the time.” But I liked it, how silly and sweet he was when no one was watching. No one except me. It feels like I’m always watching him.

And then he’s kissing me again, hot and urgent and hard, tongue sliding against the seam of my lips and in. Careful of the fangs--always so careful of the fangs. I think, then, about what he’d said. That I’d be better off without him, with the vampires in their empty hotel. But that’s not true- it can’t be. I’ve always been best by his side. When I’m free, I just suffer. I’d rather be miserable in love and at his side than anywhere without him. How can he not see it? It’s been there all along. 

Trapped between us, my hands are flat against his bare chest and he’s leaning over me, one elbow beside my head, the tie limp at my cheek. I want to pull on it, to tell him to put it on me, hold me down, make me his again. I don’t. I just lean up into him, giving him whatever he wants. He can have it. 

I’d almost forgotten how strong he is-- not like me, not unnaturally so-- until his other hand finds my wrists, dragging them up above my head, as if he’d read my mind. Or maybe he just knows me that well, knows I’m disturbed, deprived, deranged for him. 

“Wait-” I’m scrambling, and he lets my arms go immediately, sitting back up. He’s straddling me, thighs bracketing my hips. 

“I’m-- Baz, I’m sorry, I thought- Like we used to- I should have asked-” He’s a mess, looking down at me wild eyed, and I can’t help the laugh that slips out of me as I grab at his cheek. 

“No, you wanker. I just meant- use the tie.” I shrug, a nasty habit he’s given me. “Hands free.” 

Blinking, he looks like he’s just been given a Christmas gift. But very slowly, like he didn’t realize it was even December. “Oh.”

Shuffling, some wobbling, losing his balance as he yanks at the tie, my hands coming up to his hips to catch him. His eyes are blue and he’s leaning over me, breath in my face, and then my fingers are untying the silk from around his skin. He’s looking at my face and I’m looking at the tie, swallowing down something solid in my throat. 

When he ties it to my wrists, held gently above me like they’re made of glass, his hands shake. 

And then he’s looking at em again, and I’m looking back. The urgency from before is gone, replaced with something hesitant and pulsing. I’m achingly hard against my trousers, and he’s not far behind, his chest pressed into mine. Our lips meet slowly this time; I kiss the mole beside his mouth, and he smiles. I kiss the dimple there, then the corner of his lips, and then he’s tasting like honey and evergreen on my tongue. 

Softly, tentatively, he starts to rock, one hand on my neck and the other at my hip, holding me against the mattress. HIs sweats ride low on his hips and I want to kiss those hip bones into the mattress, want to tug those curls and devour his warmth. The slow, careful drag of him against me is agonizing. I can hear his breath, hot on my lips, and I pant right back, fingers clawing at the air above my head. 

Gently, he sucks my bottom lip between his teeth, biting carefully, and I’m done for. I moan, pushing up into him, a lewd sound echoing back from him. 

“Si-” I gasp, because I’m weak, and my composure has never held up against him.

“I know,” He sighs, his forehead on mine, and I can hear the smile in his voice, “Go off.” 

I’m laughing when I teeter over the brink, and I wouldn’t have it any other way, his hands on my skin and his giggles on my cheek as he follows. 

When we’re finished, he sags across my chest with a hollow sound. I don’t know what to say to him. 

We’re silent, and then: “Baz?”

“Mm.” I don’t want to ruin this by talking, by bringing up the things we have to talk about. Because that, what just happened-- that seemed like a solution to me. 

“You bring out the worst in me.”

“I- Excuse me?”

“I said, you bring out the worst in me.”

What am I supposed to say to that? It’s always been like that between us. But I can feel the dimples of his cheeks on my collarbone and he huffs a laugh through his nose.

“And all I want- Baz, all I want is to bring out the worst in you, too.”

I can’t help it: “You already do.” 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i'd absolutely adore feedback,, seriously how do u write smut feedback or pointers would be LOVELY
> 
> want to join a cult? (and make friends while you're at it?!) come [here](https://discord.gg/eAetgQg)  
or on [insta](https://www.instagram.com/snowbaz_twitter_au/)  
or even on [tumblr](https://angryjane.tumblr.com/)  
[or snap?](https://youtu.be/dQw4w9WgXcQ)
> 
> the poor can't go hungry if they're eating the rich


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